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Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Merry Christmas, everyone.
May your day be filled of wonderful things like peace and joy and time
spent with family and friends and children who all get along and maybe a new
phone or laptop or a new car or a huge diamond ring that I would like every
year thanks. Or a tiara.

May God's blessings reach each and every one of you today
and in the coming New Year.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

It's a break from school, a break
from work, a break from having to be up at a certain hour so you can pack your
lunch WHY HAVEN'T YOU PACKED YOUR LUNCH THE BUS WILL SOON BE HERE.

For me, it's not much of a break.
My break is full of things to do: all the normal things and then some.

I still get up early, still manage
other people's lives. Still shop for food, do laundry, pay the
bills, prepare meals, sort through the mail, keep my eye on the calendar, clean
the house.

Normal things
have been put off or re-prioritized to make room for holiday activities. In the past month I've gift-shopped,
gift-wrapped, planned meals, attended holiday functions, and made arrangements
for two different families to visit two separate times for two nights at a
time. I hope this year I haven't forgotten anything like in years past
when I overlooked crucial things that were not unnoticed. I’m sure no one will notice that there’s a
fresh layer of dust on all of our Christmas decorations, adding to previous
years’ dust when that same chore goes undone.
I hope there’s enough toilet paper this year.

It's not a sad story. It's a
joyful one. So many people don't have what I have. But it causes me strain and stress. The guilt I feel for complaining about my
blessings only adds to the weight.

I feel it in my tightening chest, the
worry about money spent, the conflict over loving the holidays and wishing they
were over already. And it shows. It shows in my snippy attitude, my
loss of patience, the lines in my forehead that never really smooth out.

But what also shows is the joy in
the faces of my children, the smiles of loved ones that greet me when I open
the door. It's my husband being around to
carry the weight of the chores that never end. Our relatives bringing
food and telling stories and watching movies and playing video games in our
living room. It's talking and hanging out in sweats and drinking coffee
until the jitters set in. It’s ripping
open packages and stuffing garbage bags full of Christmas wrapping. It’s saying thank you and eating too much and
being grateful for time spent together.

It’s realizing that I am loved and
despite the madness and the sour feelings, that I am part of something bigger
than me.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

I tried to succeed in every way I thought possible. I thought up different ways to do things, and
began each new attempt with a vulnerability that was easily beaten down by
the harsh realities of this world. The enemy knew my weaknesses, and it used them against me time and time again. I was tossed repeatedly into the vortex of
defeat.

When my own resources were eliminated, I turned to others
for guidance. I read and studied and
appealed to people and references that I thought would give me the knowledge
that I needed to prevail. Every
suggestion, lesson and helpful conversation was a new beginning, a new
promise. I tried them all. Alas, my faith was dashed further as
my ineptitude soured any and all good ideas.

Repeated failures chipped away at my confidence. My self-worth disappeared as I examined my steps again and again. What was
I doing wrong? Everything, it
seemed. I was missing a crucial piece of
the puzzle, and it was hidden away. I
was not meant to discover it.

On the surface, my deficiencies were revealed to others. I accepted them as part of my
makeup, the very fiber of my being. It
is difficult to look in the mirror when your faith has crumbled, and I’d
be lying if I said that I found the strength to look at my own image each day. The depth of my failure and how it affected my
war-torn soul were unknown to most people.
Only close intimates knew my misery.
Perhaps the brightest spots were those who accepted me even
as they witnessed the agony of my collapse. They are the true heroes. Thank you, family and friends. You know who you are.

After a while, I stopped trying. My efforts had weakened me. The pain was too
much, the disappointment too heavy. I
acknowledged my future as a bleak one. Any shred of joy slipped from my
grasp as I hung up my hopes and dreams, and I looked forward with a resignation
that from now on others would have to pull me along in their wake.

Then one day, upon waking, my mind reached into a
small crevice of consciousness that was once smoothed over like a newly cemented sidewalk. From
that small crack came the hint of an idea. It was a new one that I hadn’t noticed yet. Could this mark a turning point for
me? Is this my last revelation? I was afraid to believe, but the small and steady light held me in its warm radiance.

I swung my feet around the bed and onto the floor. The
excitement of the possibility of success filled my spirit once again. Light-headed and high on hope, I drew my full strength up from the soles of my feet and the bottom of
my heart, holding the glow of that idea in my minds’ eye as I went about the mundane tasks
of the day.

When the time was right I put the plan in motion. I knew not where my courage came from - I can only guess that it was an otherworldly source. When I finished carrying out the plan, I tasted its brilliance. My success was unfettered. My desolation immediately filled with unbounded delight and absolute triumph. At once, my failures were erased, wisping away like a dream. My self was restored to its intended
position. How comprehensive was my
absolution! It washed over me like a
cleansing rain.

My success must be shared; it is the only way to honor its power, no matter the wretchedness of its origin.

That’s right. Today I
experienced chocolate chip cookie baking success for the first time. I never tasted manna from heaven. Likely you haven’t either, so let’s just say
that these cookies are darn close.

Watch out, Martha Stewart.

I’m coming.

*******

Disclosure: Crisco
did not compensate me for this article, though I wish they would, and soon.

Monday, December 16, 2013

I am thrilled to
be hooking up with Elaine of The Miss Elaine-ous Life and Kir of The Kir Corner
for this month’s Holiday Edition of Old School Blogging! And yes, I know it should be “linking up” and
not “hooking up” but I can’t pass up any opportunity to be a little bit
inappropriate. You’re welcome.

If you’re unaware of Old School Blogging, it’s where
bloggers revive blogging memes that went around years ago when blogging was
in its infancy and I was still giddy about finding all my old high school and
college buddies on Facebook, whenI spent most of my time filling out
questionnaires and passing around Facebook notes. Maybe you aren’t aware of Old School Blogging
or Facebook notes at all and this is your first time with old school internet
anything. To this I say welcome, Mademoiselle. You’re in for a treat, and by treat I mean
that you are about to read some more about me.
Irresistible, right? No? Okay then.

So how do you feel about the holidays? Do you love ‘em? Hate ‘em?
Do the constant shopping, holiday music, insane expectations, endless
celebrations, and kids hopped up on sugar and Santa make you a little bit crazy
like a fox?

I love the holidays and all the stuff that goes along with
them, although I would like it if the period of celebrating was extended and we
either got the whole month of December off from regular life things or that we
took two months to celebrate, because is it just me or does the holiday stuff require at least 8 weekends? Or am I a slacker who needs way too much time
to do everything my goodness why does it take me so long to do everything?

Want to know more
about how I feel about the holidays? Read on.
Welcome to Old School Blogging, Holiday style.

First things first: One Holy Night or Eight
Crazy Ones? Do you Celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, or both?

Christmas. We celebrate Christ’s birth all done up with
a pretty bow and a suspect Christmas tree.
We also believed in Santa once upon a time, which was cool when your
kids are little because OMG the magic but then they get older and smarter and
Santa becomes this big ol’ lie that I simultaneously perpetuated and hated
myself for. Amazingly, my kids never
hated me for all the lying when they eventually found out the truth and yours
probably won’t either, so stop worrying about it.

Twelve years old, and Santa still makes him smile.

Peppermint or Chocolate? Chocolate is the champion of the
world. Don’t try to appease me with
Chocolate Mint anything. Although I will
snarf a bag of Mint Milanos if we’re out of chocolate chips. Don’t tempt me. I will.

Sing us into the Holiday Season. What is
your favorite carol this time of year? I love a good jazzy Sleigh Ride
(no lyrics, please) and the Johnny Mathis classic We Need A Little
Christmas. If you want to see me cry
like a baby, come with me to church on Christmas Eve and wait until all the
lights go out and we raise our candles while singing Silent
Night. I pretty much live for this
moment every Christmas.

Tell us about a favorite family or personal holiday tradition. A personal holiday tradition is where I lock
myself in my bedroom and crank out the holiday wrapping. I love gift wrapping. No bows, no fancy tags – just a pair of
scissors, tape, a couple of rolls of wrapping paper and some Food Network to get me through it all. Our family
always helps out in the nursery at church on Christmas Eve. All the kids wear fancy clothes! It’s the cutest thing ever.

Come on, you remember your favorite Christmas
or Hanukkah gift. Tell us all about it. I am so not a gift person, and ask for nothing for Christmas, so this is
hard. One year my husband wrote each of
our kids and me a letter, and put them inside beautiful wooden keepsake boxes. It was very touching and meaningful. He continued to write letters to us, and we
store them in the boxes! Another time I
got a gift card to the liquor store. I
wonder why more people don’t do this.

That magical moment: your favorite
scene from a holiday movie. Because I’m from the area where Jimmy Stewart is from, it’s in my DNA to consider It’s A Wonderful Life the
best holiday movie ever. That part of
the movie where the gym floor opens up and all the party-goers fall into the
pool? Hilarious. You thought I was going to pick the scene at
the end, didn’t you? Well, yeah. That part’s good too.

Kissing under the mistletoe. Who
do you hope is standing underneath (we know it’s normally your spouse, but if
it did not have to be, who would you choose)? My love of Ryan Gosling and
Christian Bale are well-documented here, so it would have to be one of
them. Or both. Yeah, both.

Swans a swimming, lords a leaping,
golden rings: which gift of the 12 days of Christmas would you like most? The golden rings. ALWAYS the
golden rings. Hello, there are five.

Play Secret Santa. What inappropriate gift would you love to
give this year? A date with Ryan Gosling and Christian Bale. To myself, of course. Okay, I'll stop now.

Martha Stewart or the Grinch? What is
your decorating style? I’d love to say
Martha Stewart. But alas, it’s probably
more Grinchy than I’d like to admit. I
am bound by my own creative limitations and the fact that all of our holiday
decorations are old and a jumble of styles.
We have a patchwork Christmas tree skirt. Need I say more?

I'm aware that I need help.

What is ONE WORD that defines the holiday
season for you? (Examples: Believe/Wonder/Bah Humbug?) How about frantic?

If Santa could assure its
delivery, what’s the first thing on your holiday wish LIST? I need a new car. I know it’s selfish, but in addition to the
fact that there’s always a chance that my car won’t start on any given day, now
I have reason to believe that the heater is on the fritz. Which is so cute given that the last time the
climate control needed to be fixed was the last time it was 100 degrees outside and the air
conditioning stopped working.

So there you have it, my Old
School Blog Holiday Edition! Click on
over to The Miss Elaine-ous Life or The Kir Corner to read more old school blogs,
and then write your own and hook up with them, too. Don’t forget to tweet it out using #OSBlog while
you’re at it, and have a wonderful time celebrating this holiday season!

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Every year it is inevitable that someone will get a load of
our Christmas tree and deem it “interesting.”

Interesting can mean a flurry of things, but most likely one
of two: 1. The tree is so beautiful that you insure it from theft by Martha
Stewart herself, or 2) The tree is so ugly that at the slightest glance it draws
in your gaze and burns your retinas, accomplishing two divergent ends: blinding
you and saving you from further harm.

Our tree falls somewhere in the lower-middle end of the
beauty spectrum. The hodge-podge of
ornaments on the thing and the dark-light effect it displays due to new
portions of the lights dimming each year (it’s a pre-lit artificial tree, kids)
guarantee that our tree will not be featured on anyone’s Most Beautiful
Christmas Tree list, ever.

I blame my husband, who is in charge of our tree each year,
and in addition to his inability to change with the times and unwillingness to adapt
traditions, also has no eye for design or what looks nice at all in the history
of the world. I know my judgments are
harsh. Let me give you a life lesson:
the truth is harsh, and in our house this means that our Christmas tree is ugly. But he does try, and he doesn’t complain,
which is more than anyone can say about me on this matter. I love him for both of these things. Let’s move on.

We were November newlyweds, which meant that from Christmas
Tree One we had a fully decorated tree.
We received many ornament gifts; no less
than 89 were bride/groom ornaments, and of those, 99% of them were Barbie and (one) Ken.

Let’s talk more about Barbie.
Because I loved Barbies and played with them until I was too old to play
with Barbies (I was 14), I received a Barbie ornament each year. My mother gifted them to me when I moved out
because she is thoughtful and - I realize now - highly
intelligent. We display 157 of them,
each one cheaper and uglier than the last.
Because my daughter loves Barbies and is on the fast track to also being
awkwardly too old to play with them, I inexplicably buy her a Barbie ornament
every year. Up on the tree it goes. Our tree is a veritable whorehouse of
Barbies, tempting the one (always newly married) Ken each year with their unnaturally
open-eyed stares and plastic ball gowns.

Fair distribution of unsightliness across family members means
that our son has his own collection of less-than-appealing ornaments. Let’s discuss the ugly factor of Darth Vader,
Chewbacca, Yoda, and various spacecraft, which includes but is not limited to: TIE Fighter,
TIE Interceptor, Land Speeder, and Star Destroyer. Star Wars bears no resemblance to
Christmas in the slightest, yet we have them all. Yesterday I saw a new Jabba the Hutt ornament
at the mall. I put my foot down at
putting that snot monster on my tree.

I’m probably the biggest Spongebob Squarepants fan out here,
but I do not want him on my Christmas Tree.
Spongebob is ugly times a billion.
Same goes for Blues Clues, Jimmy Neutron, Barney, My Little Pony, Elmo,
and whatever licensed character my children loved for a year and we bought as
an ornament that they care for not at all today. *Editor’s
note: This is the first year that I was able to convince my husband to leave
some of them off the tree. Little
victories.

We have Disney-themed ornaments: The Nightmare Before Christmas,
The Lion King, Disney Princesses (joining Barbie in her ever-growing harem),
Winnie-the-Pooh. We have Scarlett O’Hara
and Humphrey Bogart. Metal tractors and
cars. A whole slew of Victorian-themed
ornaments that would be pretty on a Victorian-themed tree, notsomuch on
ours. We have a football. We have a bear playing football. We have two hundred Penn.State.Santas.

And we have every single ornament that our children have
ever made from preschool to now, glued and crayoned and faded and
wrinkled. If the hanger comes detached,
we just stick it in among the branches.
Because they are ugly, we hang them on the back side of the tree, which becomes the front side to everyone who
sees it through the window.

There’s so much potential for a beautiful tree every
year. Every year, when I take it down, I
combine themed ornaments in the hopes that next year when I say “leave that box
in the basement,” I will not have to look at them. And every year, I find them all hanging up on
the tree, my wishes falling on deaf ears.
After all, these ornaments are meaningful. Each one tells a story, Andrea. Stop being such a Scrooge.

Sigh. I’d like to
think that Scrooge at least knew what looked nice.

Note the dark spots. Try not to see them now.Welcome to my nightmare.

It's so nice when your neighbors can see the beautiful things in your home.

A wide shot of three cherished objects: Darth Vader, a Winnie the Pooh frame of us in younger years featuring my worst haircut, and the right half of a plastic reindeer playing basketball. Classic.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Yesterday was a snow day around here; we got 5 inches over
the course of the morning and afternoon.
It was a good kind of snow – gentle and steady, piling up on our decks
and roofs and limbs of trees like powdered sugar.

It was enough snow that the kids had off school but my
husband was able to drive to work with no issues; when he left before dawn it
wasn’t snowing yet. Same with getting
home at the end of the day - the later commuters must have stayed home with the
kids so by afternoon, the roads were just wet and he cruised home a half an
hour quicker than normal.

I cleaned and baked cookies while the kids played with their
friends outside. They did some sledding
and snowball fighting, and made their way indoors to warm living rooms and hot chocolate
when their noses and fingers got cold. I
admit that maybe my snow day was more peaceful than others, because my kids
were out of the house all day. Other moms
dried their wet things so they could be shooed out again into the snow.

They came home to cookies and warm baths; my son’s clothes
were covered in mud and I asked no questions but threw his clothes in the wash. It only mattered that he was out there,
enjoying a day off with built in entertainment that fell from the sky in the
form of thousands of snowflakes.

We said no to our evening activities, scared off by the
threat of icy roads caused by rapidly plummeting temperatures and encouraged by
the coziness of our home. We ate dinner
and played video games and watched TV and made Christmas cards instead. We went to bed a little earlier than usual,
ready to tuck this day in and move onto the next.

Monday, December 9, 2013

This past weekend I was catching up on blog reading, both my
favorite pastime and my family’s least favorite, because it means that I will
be sitting with a laptop IN MY LAP for hours.
And hours. And who can find the food
around here when mom has her nose glued to a screen all afternoon?

And evening?

Sometimes, all that blog reading pays off, and by sometimes
I mean every time, because bloggers are some of the best writers, and the
reason why most of them are ‘just’ bloggers and not household name authors is
because they are distracted by other things in their lives
that demand attention nearly every hour of every day, and who has time to
hammer out a tome when there are dollars to be made, noses to be wiped, and daily fistfights to
break up? (Oh, wait. That last one’s just me,
isn’t it?)

And sometimes all that blog reading pays off because you
make actual connections with the people behind the screens, and you learn a bit
about their real lives, and they learn about yours. And you find that bloggers are pretty awesome
people.

And not just because they give you awards.

Which happened to me. Lisa of The Meaning of Me passed a Liebster Award
my way about three weeks ago. And I just
read about it this weekend. Look, I
never said that I do my favorite pastime all that often. After high-fiving myself for winning an award
and thanking Lisa a bit gushingly and embarrassingly, I did some light internet
research and learned that The Liebster Award (liebster meaning dearest in
German) is a meme that has circled the blogisphere for a while and it is
designed to spread love and support between bloggers, to encourage each other
and say hey, I like you, keep doing what you’re doing. I also learned that The Liebster is a virtual
award and not a diamond-encrusted tiara that would go quite beautifully with a
variety of outfits anchored by yoga pants.

Like most awards, the Liebster is not without
responsibility, and as I march to accept it, I must also provide something in
return. A list. Three lists, actually. Buckle up, kids. Here they come.

I don't know about this 'less than 200 followers' qualification. Surely it is true for me, but for others, I can't really say.I chose to omit that detail when choosing future award winners.

11 Facts About Me

1. I got the tip of my thumb cut off when I was three. It looks weird. Stop staring.

2. If someone asked me to move to France tomorrow, I’d do it
immediately without hesitation. I have
also brainwashed my children to agree with me.
I have romantic notions about owning a lavender farm in Provence. I can’t explain it.

3. I keep a list of books and movies I want to read and
see. It is over two hundred titles
long. I read about three books a year
and watch the same movies over and over again.

4. I am against having pets.
I think all animals should live outside.

5. My left leg is a quarter inch shorter than my right. Between that and my thumb, I kind of feel
like I should carry a sideshow participant card around with me.

6. I read Vogue magazine from cover to cover each
month. It has a special place on my
kitchen desk, and no one else is allowed to touch it.

7. I pray for famous people who are in turmoil to get their
act together. I mean, I actually pray for them. I’m looking at you, Lindsay Lohan.

8. I have comically high standards. While my husband is researching cars to
replace my eight-year-old Altima, I’m pricing Range Rovers. We live a one-income, used-minivan lifestyle.

9. I remember odd things like telephone numbers, song lyrics
and old friends’ birthdays, yet I can’t remember conversations that I had
yesterday.

10. My husband went to college at Penn State. He loves it with every fiber of his
being. I hate Penn State with perhaps
the same fervor.

This is how my husband "decorates" our home in the name of Penn State. Hideous.

11. I have an Elizabeth Taylor-level love of extravagant and
ostentatious jewelry.

1. If you had to
choose, would you rather give up your sense of sight or your sense of hearing? Hearing.
I like it quiet, and while I would mourn the music and the sound of my
loved one’s voices, I’d rather not hear than not see. I have trouble hearing anyway due to some
overzealous headphones use back in my teens, so I’m on my way there anyway.

2. What is your
favorite time of day? Why? Early morning, suckers. It’s so quiet.

3. What is your
favorite article of clothing? A pair of jeans I’ve had for a few
years. I am aware that I wear them a
lot. Like five times a week a lot,
sometimes.

4. What household
chore would you rather not do ever again? All of them. I hate cleaning up after people.

5. Who is your hero?
Why? This is so hard for me. I don’t
know. I’ve never been a hero
worshipper. I always looked up to my
mother, because she is confident and clear and decisive. These are three things that I am not.

6. How do you like
your steak cooked? Medium. I like it
pink.

7. Describe the worst/weirdest
haircut you’ve ever had. I’ve had a
few. The weirdest was this short layered
bob with super short baby bangs. My husband
cried when I came home from the salon with that one. The worst was the Millenial Mom cut: short
and layered on top and the sides, longer in the back and a little bit spiky all
over. Oh my goodness, why didn’t anyone
tell me how horrible it was? I’m holding everyone around me responsible
forever.

It's so bad, I can't even show my face.

8. What would you like
to be known for? Being a good person.
Having a sense of humor. Raising fabulously successful children. Writing
the best novel in the history of the world.
See also #8 above.

9. Dog person or cat
person? Cat. Dogs are way too needy
and annoying. Stop slobbering on
me. Stop jumping on me. Stop barking, for the love of everything holy
and pure!!

10. Which
is better – the book or the movie? Usually the book. Did you see the Twilight movies? OMG so painful.

Congratulations, bloggers!
You all have won this prestigious award!
I hope you’re reading, and that you do it. If you’re not on this list, you can still pull a Liebster. After all, the Liebster award is
really just arbitrary. There’s no real
award apart from being chosen to do it.
Which might not even be a good thing in your eyes.

Either way, this Liebster business is no joke, people. It’s a challenge. And I don’t really know if any of these bloggers
have done it before, or if they will pass it on. I hope they will for their readers’ sakes,
including me. Here are the questions I
would like answered:

11 Questions for Liebster Award Winners

1. What embarrasses you?

2. How much do you swear around your kids, if you have
kids? If you don’t have kids, how much do you swear
in general?

3. Do you speak a foreign language? Why or why not?

4. If you could live anywhere else in the world, where would
it be? It’s okay if you say “right where
I am now.” I won’t judge you for being
boring.

5. Outside of your family and yourself, what is your biggest
love?

6. What is one thing you are terrible at?

7. Your dream job.

8. What is your biggest sociopolitical concern?

9. Where and when
would you go if you could travel through time?

10. Are you adventuresome?

11. Creatively, what are you best at? What are you worst at?

Whew! Thanks for
hanging in with me, friends. Let me know
if you do a Liebster, so I know that you’ve passed the torch along! Happy
Liebstering!

Friday, December 6, 2013

We met at the YMCA. We
were three, maybe four. Little girls
take dance classes at that age because they are adorable in little pink
leotards and ballet slippers and shiny patent tap shoes and then, like now, moms
will do just about anything to get out of the house with their children.

Our class was small and we spent one hour a week every
school year in that second floor room together with Miss Rita and her cropped
hair and stern instructions to point, stretch, turn those knees out.

My knees didn’t turn out.
But Erin’s did. She was a natural
athlete and always a better dancer than me. I had knobby knees and turned-in
toes and never really knew how to move my body gracefully.

Our moms became friends as we danced. I don’t remember when they were asked to
stop watching our lessons. They still maintain
that it was because they giggled too much, but the important thing was that
they spent that hour each week getting to know each other.

We didn’t live in the same town, so we didn’t go to the same
school, but as Erin and I grew up we had sleepovers at each other’s
houses. Spending so much time in each other’s
homes – sleeping in the same bed and giggling into the night, eating dinner
with each other’s families, meeting extended family members, wearing each other’s
clothes – gave our friendship an intimacy that just doesn’t happen with
school chums. I shaved my legs for the
first time sitting on the edge of Erin’s bathtub. I watched my first horror movie in her living
room. I made salad for the first time in
her mother’s kitchen. I wrote most of my
diary entries behind the closed door of her bedroom, listening to Wham! and making
prank phone calls and swooning over the poster of Rob Lowe that she had hanging
on her wall. We shared books, crushes,
fears, and secrets. We were building a history.

As the years advanced so did our friendship, and so did our
dance lessons. I struggled to keep up. Miss Rita was always frustrated with my
inability to properly turn out my knees.
I had adequate flexibility but none of the agility of movement ballet
required. Erin excelled. She was into sports as well, tennis and
basketball and softball. One year she
was moved up a level in dance, and we were no longer in the same class. I switched dance schools.

Our friendship was firmly rooted by then, and we danced when
we saw each other, sometimes sharing what we learned in our classes, most of
the time remembering the moves to Michael Jackson’s Thriller dance we learned
as kids, or making up our own.

We’d spend summers either swimming at my house in the
country or walking the neighborhoods around her house in town. Once we met by surprise on vacation and spent
the week together. We each had other
groups of friends, and we were accepted into each others’ circles and got to
know them as tweens, then teens. Dance
lessons were long behind us – I don’t remember exactly when we both stopped
taking them. In high school we had our
last sleepover.

We grew up and away as people do, going to college and
finding careers and making new friends. Erin and I see each other sporadically now,
living away from each other but keeping up through our moms who built their
friendship alongside ours. When we see
each other, bringing our own families with us, we laugh and talk and hug and it feels like no time has passed since we were girls.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Once upon a time there was a girl. The girl loved macaroni and cheese.

Throughout her life, the girl ate this dish in every
configuration: the kind in the blue box with the powdered orange cheese, the kind
in the yellow box with shells and creamy sauce, the frozen kind, the baked kind
with bread crumb topping, the kind you make in the slow cooker. She just loved it, and would dare say that if
stranded on a desert island with the choice of only one food to eat, she would choose macaroni and cheese.

Then one day, serendipity paid a visit.

She was on vacation with some girlfriends, and one night at a restaurant, she and her
friend (shout-out to Crystal, hey girrrrl) ate some macaroni and cheese that knocked their socks off.

They talked about it.
They drooled over it. They went
back to the restaurant* and had it again.

During the same vacation, she and her friends were watching
a local cooking show while lounging away the afternoon drinking margaritas
in their pajamas. On the show was
featured one dish: Stovetop Mac and Cheese.
Their ears and eyes perked up as they realized that this dish was uncannily similar to the one they had enjoyed earlier. The steps were simple, as were the
ingredients. I can do this, thought the
girl.

The girl came home from bacchanalia vacation and as life
took a firm grip on her, she promptly forgot about the coveted dish. Months later, while preparing dinner menus
for her family, she remembered the stovetop mac and cheese and its mouthwatering taste.

She did some research and found a couple of recipes that she
combined and adapted to approach the loveliness that was the dish that she had
loved all those moons before.

And now, she is sharing it with you.

I mean, I am. Get
ready, kids, because it’s magic time.

Macaroni and Cheese
on the Stove

Ingredients:

3½ cups of water. Measure it, because you will not be draining
any liquid. Oh yeah, I said that. No draining, people. For real.

1¼ cup light cream or
half and half. Are you someone who
knows the difference between these two?
Because I don’t. In my world,
they are interchangeable. I don’t want
to know the difference.

1 lb. macaroni. You know what I like to use? The large corkscrews. Bang.
You can use whatever kind you want, but look - if you use spaghetti noodles or egg noodles
because you are contrary like that, then you are a rebel in a bad way because
this is just not going to turn out well for you.

Salt. For flavor.
You may be a spicy thing, but your personality alone cannot flavor this
dish. Trust.

2½ T. flour. How else are you going to thicken the
sauce? Come on, now.

1½ T. Dijon mustard. Yep.
The fancy kind. Just go with the
smooth, not the one with all the seeds in it.
I like that kind too, but now is not the time to get it out. Save that one for when you want to have a nice ham
sandwich or something. You know what
would go well with this dish? Ham
sandwiches.

Black pepper. This is where I get fancy. I use fresh ground pepper. There’s something about the big grounds of
pepper that I really get into.
Conversely, they like to get into my teeth. See also: what is guaranteed to be sticking
in my teeth every single time my husband takes my picture.

1½ c. milk. Because half and half or cream isn’t enough
dairy, and we haven’t even added the cheese yet.

1 c. shredded aged
white cheddar cheese. Don’t skimp
here. Get the goods. Shred it yourself and stop being so lazy all
the time. Watch the fingers. No one wants your fingerprints shredded into their mac.

1 c. shredded swiss or
emmental or gruyere cheese. Go
ahead. Break out the furs and diamonds
and get fancy here. You are only making
the world’s most delicious food. Pick one or two and do it
up. I use emmental cheese when I can find it because it rocks my world. In my area it's kind of hard to find, even with all the fancy grocery stores trying to outdo each other. You know where I can usually find it? Walmart. Take that, fancies.

2 to 4 oz. chopped
green chiles. HELLO! SNAP! That
just slapped you across the face, didn’t it?
Never saw it coming.

All the ingredients, sitting in a pretty little row. Do you like my flour canister? It's a plastic bag!

Okay, so here’s what you do.

Instructinos:

[Note: when I type any
word with “-tion” at the end, it comes out “-tino.” I like it better, and am starting a
revolutino to change all “-tion” words to “-tino” words. Who’s with me?]

1. Put the water and cream in a large pot and heat it over
medium heat until it is hot but not boiling.
Stir in macaroni and a little bit of salt, like ¼ to ½ t. Cover and reduce heat a little and simmer
until macaroni is almost tender, about 7 minutes. I don’t like mushy macaroni so I am a little
nutsy about this timing part. I’m always
reaching into the pot and burning myself on hot macaroni. You might do that too if you’re a chump like
me, but I don’t recommend it.

This is the part where it will threaten to boil over about a million times. Don't let it. Take control.

2. Whisk flour, mustard, and black pepper into the milk, and
pour it into the pot. Stir. Pump up the heat a little and stir and cook
until the sauce is thickened, maybe like 5-8 minutes.

3. Remove from the heat and dump in the cheese and green
chiles. You don’t have to drain the
chiles or anything. I use a whole 4 oz. can because I love green chiles. My kids hate them, but I don't even care one bit about their needs at this point. Stir to combine. Be the boss that you are.

4. Season to taste with salt.

All I can think of at the stage is: "I'm gonna have to clean the pot and it's gonna be a nightmare."

5. Eat. My favorite instructino.

And that is it.
Deliciousness on the stovetop, and you didn’t even need to strain
yourself or the macaroni, HA! I think this would be tasty with a melted butter
and bread crumb topping and baked in the oven for a few minutes, but I have
never done that. If you do, please let
me know if I should bother. If you live through
the tasting, that is. You might die and go
to heaven from the sheer ecstasy of it.

I sprinkled chives on top just because.

I almost forgot! The
ending to my true story!

Ahem.

The girl ate this new mac and cheese regularly and
gained ten pounds in two months.

Monday, December 2, 2013

Going home for the holidays is an exercise in memory-keeping
for me. Here is the living room where we
opened countless Christmas gifts. Here
is the garage step that used to wobble and make my heart stop when I descended. Here is the closet where Grandma always kept
her sewing kit, the drawer that keeps all the old pictures.

My nostalgia extends to my husband’s family, where the
memories are newer for me, but no less poignant. We watch a fiftieth wedding anniversary video,
compiled of snapshots and moving music. The
black and white photos and the life stories they bookmark fill my eyes with
tears. These are other people’s
memories, yet my throat catches as I watch with people who remember them.

We come home, my mind and heart filled with family and love and
a little bit of desperation to get away from the fullness of living rooms and
kitchens and back to my own spaces and the present.

I look in the mirror and there I am. I have color treated hair not for style, but to
cover the white that is swiftly taking over.
It intrigues me. My mother’s hair
is white. My grandfather’s hair was
white for years before he died. I am
carrying the torch for white haired people in my family.

But, no. My hair is
brown. All those pictures. I have brown hair. I am the only daughter in my family, the girl
who got the tip of her thumb cut off in the garage door when she was three, the
one who got lost at the Farm Show. The
one who looked more like her cousins than her own brother. I have brown hair. Now everyone says I look like my mother.

I feel like I did in my parents’ house growing up, but the
mirror reflects a different person. My
memories do not match the image I see. Today
my neck hurts almost constantly, a pain from some over-zealous exercising done almost
a year ago. The girl in my memories has
no pain. As a kid I don’t remember
feeling pain, nor hunger, nor cold. Yet
I tell my kids to eat, be careful, put on a coat, you’ll catch a cold.

When did this happen?
In my mind I am me. Out of my
mind I am their mother, his wife, their daughter, their sister, their
friend. To them I am out of my
mind. To me I am me.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

I've said before that I feel bad for turkeys on Thanksgiving not because we eat them, but because they don't know how delicious they are.

Today, instead of feeling bad for turkeys, I will try to focus on the things in life that I am thankful for: the blessings of home, loved ones, and the beautiful world that we live in, the laughter of my children, the health of my family and friends, the forgiving and wonderful God who made me.

And turkeys. I can't help but love them.

**I first published this post way back on Thanksgiving 2011. Those were the days.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

So Thanksgiving’s tomorrow, and everyone’s excited about feeding
their faces and eating the heck out of a turkey and some stuffing, because on
this special day, gluttony is acceptable.

Except in my world.
Here in Andrealand, gluttony has been acceptable for a few weeks
now.

Seriously. The day it
got a little chilly and I put on some blue jeans, I announced that sugar, bread,
booze, and sodium were the new main food groups.

And since then I've gained like 800 pounds.

Now obviously, I’m exaggerating. A person cannot gain 800 pounds in a few weeks. But I have to admit that at the rate I’m
going, it’s like I’m trying.

I’m not sure what changed exactly, but it’s like a little
switch in my brain flipped and at mealtimes instead of warning “Alert! You are full!
NO MORE EATING!” it crooned in my ear, all silky smooth and seductive-like,
“Hey girl. Everyone loves a healthy
booty now. Have another cinnamon roll.”

Every. Time.

But you guys. I hit
the wall. None of my clothes fit
anymore. Well, okay, I’m not exactly
going around in the nude. But if you
look closely, elastic and lycra feature heavily in all my wardrobe choices. At least three people I know are doing or
have just finished a detox/dietary cleanse.
I never knew so many at once to do this before, when I had a handle on
things. Someone is telling me something. Maybe God is saying “Okay, Andrea, you’ve
shown me that you’re thankful for all the food I’ve provided. It’s time to settle down.” It’s a wonder that I heard anything over the chomping.

And I have to admit, I’m not altogether thankful that this
is all going down the week of the biggest eating tradition in the history of
our noble country.

But this Thanksgiving, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say:
ENOUGH. I can’t keep going in this
direction. I feel terrible. My body hates me.

So I’ve decided to cut back a little. I’m getting a head start on my springtime
health kick. I’m doing my New Year’s
resolution to be more mindful of what goes in my mouth a little early this
year.

I feel good about it.
I hope my body responds in rapid succession, because cutting back on eating during the holidays is a Capital S Stupid idea. But I can do it. Heck, I’ve even been known to do a cleanse once upon a time. That was fun.

So wish me luck and shoot me a prayer or two, if you’re that
type of person who prays for another to be less of a hog. I’m totally thankful for it.

Monday, November 25, 2013

The other day my husband said to me, “I’m impressed at your
commitment to getting up so early every day.
I hate doing it.”

I thanked him and tamped down his compliment (why am I still
doing this?!?!?), explaining that I’m no hero.
I enjoy the quiet, and I find it best at 5 am. I get up early so I can write.

During the week I sit down with my journal, the computer,
and a cup of coffee, and I don’t move for two hours. It’s really two different things, his 5 am and
mine. He gets up early so he can exercise before work an hour away. Everything about that sounds just awful to
me.

I love that writing is the first thing each day, except when
I get up to write and have nothing to write about. My dreams don’t always leave me with deep
thoughts, the internet doesn’t always inspire with topics of
interest, and nothing has happened yet that I care to talk about. There are five blog posts in my drafts folder
and I’m bored with all of them. The
subjects that popped into my head yesterday as I grocery shopped, folded
laundry, talked with my kids? All
gone. I’ve not yet made a habit of
writing everything down.

Still, I get up early and write. It’s not great writing. It might not even be good writing.

I write anyway, hoping that something will shake the
thoughts loose. So far this morning, the
following is what brewed in my mind:

Why some moms have Pinterest boards devoted to smashing down
other moms.

A blog post by a parent responding to other parents who only have boys OR girls and talk about having it so much better than parents who only have the other gender, or parents who have both. How I hate when people make comments like “That’s why I’m so glad I don’t have {insert opposite gender here}.” Don’t people realize that they sound rude? And trifling?

Should I get the kids up? Should I let them sleep?

The upcoming holidays and annoyance at “I’m done with my Christmas shopping!!” posts on Facebook.

Friday, November 22, 2013

This post is sponsored
by React Mobile. I have been compensated
for this post, and all words, perspectives and opinions are my own.

The big question in my circle is: when should a child have a cellphone?

And surprise, there’s no one answer to this question. Were you looking for one? This is parenting, people. If you are looking for clear answers to parenting
questions then you should not be a parent. The answers are as diverse as there are children
in the world.

Some of my kids’ friends have had cellphones since they were
8 or 9 years old. My kids at 8 and 9
were inherently careless with their stuff, and I knew that they
weren’t ready for a mobile device that needs to be handled with care, updated, charged
regularly and placed properly in its holding place until the next usage. Their electronics at this age were handheld
video game systems and iPods that never left the house.

One reason for giving young kids cellphones is for parents to
keep track of them when they are away from home. Now, look: my kids are usually at home. When they're not, they are at school, at a
school-sponsored activity, or with a trusted adult. Even today they're not out of our sight for
long, and we know where they are headed if they are out alone. On rare occasions we hand them one of our
cellphones and tell them to call when they get where they are going, and
call again when they are on their way back.

As kids grow, the instances of their independence correlate
with their maturity and ability to take better care of possessions. My celebration as a parent who raised youngsters
to take care of electronic devices for more than a month without breaking or
misplacing them was short-lived when I realized that they are spending more and
more time without my protection.
They can wait for me to pick them up.
They can call me when they’re finished.
They can get rides with friends' parents.

They can wander the earth alone.

And this makes me, as a mom, a little nervous. Because I know what’s out there, and it’s not
always friendly.

My son is getting a smartphone this year. When he does, I will be relieved that I
will have a way to contact him reliably.
No more will he have to rely on a friend’s cellphone; he’ll always know
what time it is so he can check in, and we will be able to let him know if we
will be late or if plans change. He’ll
be safer with a cellphone when he’s out and about. I know, I know – welcome to the 21st
century.

But there is an added measure of protection that I’m going
to share with you.

We will be sure to download the React Mobile app onto his
phone, which is a fantastic new tool that can be used to keep track of your
kids using their smartphone. Much more
than a “find me” app, React Mobile is a safety feature that a
smartphone user can activate if they are alone in a place where they
don’t feel totally comfortable.

You enter in your contacts, turn on the Follow Me option, and your contacts are alerted if you need them. Or if you want them to know where you are. Or if a mom wants to know where her son is.

Parents can use the app to track their child's position in real time as they move from place to place. Say my son is going to the high school football game, then getting a ride from a friend’s mom to the local pizza shop for a post-game hangout. He can send me a text through the app to let me know where he's going, and after he activates the Follow Me option, the app shows me in real time (using Google map info and his phone's GPS) that he is where he says he is, and when he taps the "I'm Safe" button, I know that he is okay.

The React Mobile app can also be activated (Send SOS) if he finds himself in a dangerous situation. He can use the app to alert me and any of his
emergency contacts (including an automatic option to call 911) that he needs immediate
assistance. The app will provide all his emergency contacts with the alert and his location, which is vital information for the authorities, not to mention any worried parent.

The React Mobile app is a tracking device, a lifeline, and an
alert system all in one, and the best part is that it’s free. Okay, that's not the best part. The best part is that it gives me peace of mind when my child goes off into the world by himself. But it’s still pretty great.

And it’s the first thing that is going on his new smartphone. I think we’re both ready for it.